It has been increasingly difficult lately to give myself the space to be a human being. I am not inclined to be patient, I have no desire to be strong for the sake of strength, and I would mostly like to succumb to a depression nap, almost all of the time.
Sometimes, it’s hard to even see the point of trying. I do not want to embrace my own humanity.
I am sick of being a person, and days like these make me feel like like I’m back to square one, or that leaving square one to begin with was nothing more than a weirdly vivid, long-lived fever dream.
I know somewhere in the back of my head that I heave learned and grown, that I am, on average, more positive and self-assured. I know that I am making strides (but I am still always surprised and daunted to remember that the answer to the questions, “Are we there yet?” and “How much longer?” are no and forever).
It shouldn’t be surprising that it’s still hard to stay up-beat, that self-advocacy will never not be a challenge, and that drowning out the voices of doubt and self-criticism in the back of my head is, as my people say, a fucking task. Still, I did think that I was doing better about it, at least outwardly… until someone called me out on my self-deprecating humor, like, three times.
Apparently, referring to myself as a fungus you can’t get rid of in casual conversation is not considered positive self-talk, even if you do put the fun in fungus.
It really doesn’t feel good to realize how much farther I still have to go on this walk. It really shouldn’t be so hard to stop being such a dick to myself, but, lo, I am La Asshole Extraordinaire.